


Sweet Prince

by queeshmael



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeshmael/pseuds/queeshmael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio is nervous about meeting the parents of his boyfriend, who happen to be the King and Queen of his country. In his nervousness, he reflects on the time he's spent as "fellow student"--and much more--to the Royal Dane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Prince

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nahco3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/gifts).



> I have never been to Denmark or Germany, so apologies if I completely messed up the geography or any details about places. Also everything I know about fencing I learned from Wikipedia, which means it might not be completely accurate. Apologies for that as well! Thanks to QueenMab26 for being my beta!  
> To nahco3--I hope you like this! I love modern AU's, and as soon as I found out that Denmark still has a monarchy, I've been dying to write this modern AU. Thanks for giving me that opportunity!

Horatio looked up from his Kierkegaard--Fear and Trembling, but his eyes had not moved from the same page for over five minutes, betraying his inability to focus--and gazed out the window, at the rolling green expanses, the small towns, the clusters of trees. As the train sped toward Helsingor, he settled back into his roomy leather seat (his first time riding in first class), trying to quench the nervousness churning in his stomach through sheer willpower. It wasn’t working. 

He jumped at the sound of the carriage door opening, and he turned in his seat to see the train conductor and a besuited man following him. He pulled his ticket from his book and handed it to the conductor, the girl beside him shaking her long blond hair and smiling flirtatiously at him as she replaced her ticket in her purse. He ignored her, as he’d been doing for the duration of the trip. He prayed she wouldn’t try to make conversation.

Upon seeing his ticket, the conductor showed the piece of paper to the imposing man in the suit. The suit glanced at the ticket, nodded, pressed a finger to his ear and said, “We’ve got him.” The conductor continued to move up the aisle as the suit took up position by the door of the carriage through which they came. The woman sitting next to Horatio frowned at him, glanced back at the suit, and frowned at Horatio again. He lowered his eyes to his book, tucking the ticket back inside, taking extra care to cover up his name.

“Are you some kind of famous person?” the girl finally said. Horatio gulped.

“No. No, not at all,” he said in an even tone without raising his eyes from the page before him.

“Are you sure? I think I’ve seen you before.”

Horatio began shaking his head violently. “Nope. You definitely have not seen me before.” He continued to stare at his Kierkegaard, and eventually, sensing his unwillingness to talk, she stopped speaking, but continued to sneak glances at him.

With about forty-five minutes left in their two hour train ride, Horatio pushed passed the girl apologetically, moving down the aisle towards the next car with a bathroom. He sensed movement behind him and, turning around, noticed that the besuited man was following him, stopping only when Horatio reached for the bathroom door.

“Are you going to wait for me?” Horatio asked, his brow furrowed with confusion, until he noticed the man’s lapel pin--a tiny red and white crest. The royal crest of Denmark.

“Ah,” he said, nodding with comprehension. He pushed the bathroom door open, then turned around again. “I’m not a criminal, you know.”

“We know,” the man said sternly.

“Right. Of course you do,” Horatio replied, closing the bathroom door behind him. They probably knew more about him than he did.

By the time he returned to his seat, his royal bodyguard assuming his former post near the carriage door, his female seat neighbor was smiling knowingly at him. Oh God, he thought. She’s found me out. But she didn’t say anything for the duration of their journey, and in his continued nervousness, Horatio forgot the thought.

When the train pulled into the Helsingor station, Horatio collected his bags and moved toward the door. Whether the royal bodyguard followed him or not, he wasn’t sure, because as soon as he placed a foot on the platform, flashes of light surrounded him.

“Horatio!” a cacophony of various voices shouted at different times. “Look over here!” Horatio stared at them, mouth open. What a flattering picture for all the gossip sites, he thought to himself wryly, until he spotted another man in a suit--this one smaller, but with a similar lapel pin--running towards him, shoving his way through the crowd of photographers.

“Sir! Sir! Come this way,” the man beckoned, and Horatio followed him to a sleek black car, decorated with the royal seal. He took Horatio’s bags and opened the back door for him. Horatio climbed into the car, admiring the tinted windows, and the strange man hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Mr. Frandsen, sir?” Horatio looked expectantly at the man’s face in the rear view mirror. “My name is Yorick. If you need anything during your stay with us, please let me know.”

“Thank you, Yorick. And please, call me Horatio.” Yorick smiled.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.” Horatio shrugged. At least he tried to puncture the formality of the setting he’d inevitably entered. “I apologize for the mess at the station. I’m afraid someone on the train must have recognized you and taken to social media to announce your presence.”

“It’s quite alright.” Horatio paused for a moment, thinking. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to that if I plan on sticking around for a while, huh?”

Yorick smiled. “Indeed you will, sir.” They rode in silence for a few moments, until Yorick next spoke. “The Crown Prince is waiting for you at the palace, sir. He begged to be allowed to come along, to the station, but Their Majesties worried that something of that sort might happen.”

“I understand,” Horatio said. He did--and what were a few more minutes, really, after two months of separation?

“He is, naturally, quite excited for your visit, and Their Majesties are looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

“I’m so nervous,” Horatio confessed. “What if they don’t like me? How can they possibly like me? I started a national scandal.”

“I’m afraid the scandal was all the Crown Prince’s making, sir.”

“It takes two to tango,” Horatio deadpanned.

“If I may be so bold, sir? They are people, just like your prince. Remember that.” Yorick nodded sagely, and Horatio thanked as many gods as he could think of that he had found a friend in this foreign world which he was about to enter. It was one thing, dating a prince while away at school, far away from servants and royal crests and gilded palaces--and royal parents, parents who’ve ruled your country since before you were born, whose visages hung framed in your childhood home. It was quite another to enter that world, a world which you were not born into and which had its own infinitely complicated system of rules and regulations, where one misstep could cost you the esteem of everyone you knew.  
\----------------------------------  
He had met the prince at Wittenberg, in the first semester of their freshman year. He’d been vaguely aware of his presence, as a fellow Dane and therefore a foreign student, before they actually met one day in their Introduction to World Politics lecture.

He remembered paying no attention at first to the thin blond who plopped down in the desk next to him--at least, not at first, his head bent low over his notebook and assigned reading scattered across his tiny desk. He didn’t notice him until the blond head leaned close to him and whispered, “I admire you for sitting this close to the front. I hear Svensen’s rather profligate with his saliva.”

Horatio started, directing his gaze to the person seated beside him, and experienced a flash of recognition. His next reaction was completely involuntary: he smiled and burst into laughter, which prompted the prince seated beside him to smile as well.

“I think that’s a rumor. I seem to have escaped such a spray.” Horatio responded, and then, remembering himself, added an abrupt, “Sir!”

“On no, please, don’t call me ‘sir.’ Just ‘Hamlet’ here. And you are?” Horatio understood why he was so well loved--he oozed charm and charisma, but in a warm and endearing way. Horatio introduced himself.

“I’ve admired your comments in class the past few weeks--so thoughtful and well-worded. Impressive, to say the least. How do you get all of this reading done?”

Horatio, still smiling, still conscious of the smile on his face, replied, “How do you know I get all the reading done?” Hamlet gestured to his notes and well-annotated text. “Guilty,” Horatio admitted. “Though, I must confess, I am probably the most boring college student on the planet. My friends have to forcibly remove me from my room to get me to go out--and I still find a dark corner and read my smuggled book, despite their best efforts.”

Hamlet laughed, his blue eyes sparkling. Really lovely blue eyes--no, NO, Horatio said to himself, stopping those thoughts before they even started. Perhaps he would befriend the prince, but he would not fall in love with him.

“My friends confiscate my books, which doesn’t prevent me from being miserable at the insufferable rich kid parties I have to attend. We should study together--it will give us both an excuse to escape our party-happy friends. Though I guess we can’t fault them--it’s what they’re socially expected to do in college--get trashed and sleep with random people.” Horatio tried not to overthink the gender neutral “people.” No, no no no--this was the Crown Prince of Denmark. He was straighter than straight. He was practically engaged to his distant cousin, Duchess Ophelia, or so all the gossip sites said.

“Sure, that sounds great,” Horatio replied, as class began, and Hamlet’s late coming friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, swept in as soon as class ended. The prince left, flanked by the two of them, without so much as a wave goodbye at Horatio. He didn’t get Hamlet’s number, and his email was not listed in the university’s online directory. He hoped he’d catch Hamlet before class another time, but each time Hamlet seemed distracted by his seemingly constant companions, the sons of Danish noblemen too rich for their own good.

He shrugged off Hamlet’s offer to study--perhaps it had something to do with his decidedly middle class status, his non-designer clothes, his department store backpack, his tiny room in the only dorm that had not been renovated in 30 years. He shrugged off the offer, that is, until he was engaged in his dangerous but age old habit of walking through the library stacks with his nose stuck in the book he’d just found, and plowed right into the prince.

Horatio apologized profusely while Hamlet laughed his joyous laugh--it occurred to Horatio that, during the very brief amount of time they had spent in one another’s company, Hamlet had always been happy.

“So glad I literally ran into you--I’m disappointed that we haven’t had our study night.”

Horatio frowned at him, wondering if it was appropriate to frown at the man who would someday be the ceremonial head of state of your country. “How were we supposed to meet up if we had no way of contacting each other?”

Hamlet conceded Horatio’s point by nodding thoughtfully, reaching into his pocket, and flipping his phone to Horatio. Horatio caught the expensive phone nervously, entered his number, telling Hamlet to text him, hoping that he wouldn’t have to pull out his non-smartphone (at least it had a full keyboard) in front of the prince.

They agreed to meet in Hamlet’s room, the obviously nicer of the two, and a single--Horatio shared his tiny room with his best friend at Wittenberg, Marcellus. At first, they met weekly, but their study sessions soon became both more frequent and less productive. They began to read their assignments less and talk more, the nights stretching later and later. More than once, Horatio would fall asleep on Hamlet’s couch--he would awake the next morning to find himself wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, his glasses folded on top of his book, both objects sitting on Hamlet’s desk. Most of the time he quietly showed himself out, since the prince was not a morning person. Occasionally, he would leave the dormitory only briefly, returning with heaping cups of coffee. Then he would bang on the door to wake up Hamlet and drag him out to a museum or a Christmas festival.

The more time they spent together, the more moments of disconnect they had when Horatio realized that Hamlet had lived, and would always live, a very different life than he had, a life where his choices were not his own and his path was set out for him. At least Horatio, though occasionally strained by economic circumstances, had the freedom to choose his destination in life. Despite these moments, or perhaps because of them, Horatio became increasingly unable to deny his growing attraction to the prince. Hamlet was decidedly coy about his personal life, and Horatio was usually too embarrassed to ask, despite the easy informality that had sprung up between the two. It was clear to Horatio that Hamlet felt comfortable with him, comfortable enough to trust him with information about his life that only those close to his family knew--childhood stories, details about his parents or aunts and uncles, what it was like to grow up by oneself in a castle by the sea, complete with servants and a cook.

“It’s a real life fairy tale,” Horatio said one day after they had exchanged stories about their favorite birthday cakes, Hamlet’s favorite being a replica Quidditch field baked and crafted by the Kronborg castle cook.

Hamlet’s eyes clouded with a passing darkness. “It’s not all a fairy tale,” he sighed, and Horatio could feel him withdrawing into himself. The prince could be surprisingly mercurial, but Horatio, with a kind word or a gentle touch on the shoulder, could usually draw him out of his blackness more quickly than anyone else. Horatio gazed at him thoughtfully after he said that, taking in the majestic brow, the straight nose, the thin but elegant lips, but also reflecting on what could have prompted that comment. It seemed to spring from deep within Hamlet, more than a product merely of being a prisoner of destiny, a person who, after eighteen years of homeschooling, finally had independence. And yet he didn’t really have any freedom at all, because he was always being watched: by his friends, who inevitably report to his parents, by the country, by the world.

Horatio didn't have long to wait to find out the cause of that forlorn expression. While flipping through Horatio's old Facebook photos, Hamlet made an observation that would threaten the careful reticence Horatio had built and managed to preserve about his romantic life.

"Hmm," Hamlet sighed thoughtfully, catching Horatio's attention as he looked up from his own laptop where he was outlining a paper. They sat next to each other on Hamlet’s couch--the bed remained uncharted territory, probably for the best, Horatio thought. "This young fellow must have been special to you. He's in many of your pictures."

Horatio had to forcibly hold his jaw together to keep his mouth from dropping open, but he could feel the color drain from his face.

"Why do you use the past tense?" Horatio asked, avoiding Hamlet's bait.

"Because all of these pictures are from a year ago, and he hasn't been in any pictures since, which indicates to me that he is no longer a part of your life."

"Why are you going through my Facebook photos anyway?" Horatio asked, without hostility in his voice.

"Because I'm curious about you," Hamlet replied with a slow smile. That was flirty, Horatio found himself thinking. He's flirting with me.

"Well?" Hamlet asked, tapping a sock-clad foot against the hardwood floor beneath his bed. "Was he your boyfriend?"

Horatio couldn't possibly avoid the blunt question. "Yes, he was," he admitted.

"Any girlfriends you're hiding from me?" Hamlet asked. Horatio shook his head before firing back his response.

"I could say the same about you, you know." Hamlet's face fell, his expression changing from mischievously gleeful to sadly vacant. 

"Do your parents know?" Hamlet asked, instead of answering his question. Horatio nodded, explained his coming out at age sixteen to his parents, described their warm welcome of Bernardo, his boyfriend when he was seventeen, his first love and the boy Hamlet noticed in the pictures.

"It must be nice," Hamlet said, almost under his breath so that Horatio had to strain to hear him. 

"I'm very lucky," he added, but Hamlet still sat silently beside him, wrapped in his darkness. Horatio gently touched his shoulder, in an effort to reach him.

"I'm gay," he finally said with heavy despair, while Horatio sat in surprised silence. "I'm gay, and it's 2013 and I still might have to spend my entire life inside of a closet, having unsatisfying sex with my future wife so we can have children and continue our symbolic reign."

Horatio hugged him then, pulled Hamlet's thin frame into his arms, rubbing his back as a few tortured tears slipped from Hamlet's eyes onto Horatio's olive green henley. 

"Denmark is one of the most liberal places on earth," Horatio remarked, hoping his words would be comforting. "If it can happen anywhere, it can happen there."

Hamlet looked up at him, blue eyes fixed on Horatio's hazel ones. Their expression was still sad, as if to say, I acknowledge what you say but don’t necessarily think it’s true. He reached up to run his fingers through Horatio's light brown hair, a gesture of friendly affection, though more intimate than anything Horatio had shared with a friend. "Good Horatio," Hamlet breathed, smiling. "You always know just what to say."

Hamlet needlessly swore Horatio to secrecy, and they continued to spend more time alone and less time with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, whose snobbery Horatio did not appreciate. Occasionally they would eat a meal in the dining hall with Marcellus, who picked up on Horatio's crush without knowing about the prince's sexual orientation ("and if I know, Horatio, he probably does too.") But Hamlet continued to be his playful, giddy self around Horatio, finding excuses to touch his hands or shoulders or waist, leaving Horatio to wonder if his feelings were reciprocated. He would lie awake at night, remembering how Hamlet felt in his arms, calling him "sweet Prince" in his mind, fantasizing about sharing a bed with him, curling his arms around Hamlet's waist and lying flush against him, knees bent at the same angle, feet intertwined. When rationality interjected on these fantasies, telling Horatio that even if Hamlet did come out, he'd be expected to date some lord, not the son of a postal worker and a schoolteacher, he rolled over, squeezed his eyes shut to ward off the thoughts, and focused on falling asleep.

One Saturday afternoon in November, as an early snow fell outside, Hamlet, to avoid catching the notice of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern sauntering down one of the college’s many stone walks, pulled Horatio into the gym. Not wanting to be caught, they sought something to kill time with. Hamlet, blue eyes lighting up with the beginnings of an idea, pulled Horatio into one of the multi-purpose rooms, lined with mesh fencing masks and silver foils. Hamlet flipped a mask onto his face and pulled out a foil, lunging at Horatio.

“Is that a challenge, my lord?” Horatio asked, playfully adding the honorific.

“It would be, if you could fence.” Horatio pulled a fencing jacket down from a peg on the wall and tossed it to Hamlet, pulling one on for himself and grabbing a mask and foil.

“Who says I can’t fence?” Horatio said, swiping using perfect disengage technique at Hamlet, who had to spin sideways one one foot to avoid the blow, stumbling across the linoleum floor. “We had fencing in gymnasium, you know--it’s not just reserved for rich white boys.” Horatio couldn’t see Hamlet’s eyes through the mesh mask, but he knew they had narrowed, a smirk playing across his face. There was nothing Hamlet loved more than a challenge. Usually, he engaged in mental ones, but his thinness admitted to some amount of physical activity. If Horatio had known his exercise of choice was fencing, they would have been in this room much more often. Stabbing a sword at an attractive man--what a great way to work out sexual tension, Horatio thought idly, not even bothering to stop those thoughts anymore.

“Fine then,” Hamlet exclaimed. “A challenge.”

“Terms?” Horatio asked, as they faced off, one hand behind their backs, foils raised vertically in front of their faces.

Hamlet thought for a moment. “If I win, I am permitted to make one request of you, to which you must comply, within reason. Vice versa if you win.”

“That’s rather vague,” Horatio stated skeptically. “Why would I agree to that?”

“Because of the endless possibilities the vagueness allows,” Hamlet said smoothly, and Horatio was thankful the mask and the distance between them prevented Hamlet from seeing his face flush hot, with embarrassment and desire. Perhaps Marcellus was right. Perhaps Hamlet knew about the massive crush Horatio had on him. But perhaps Horatio was right too; perhaps the prince thought of him as more than a friend.

Horatio was not a risk taker. He had never made the first move, not even with Bernardo. He preferred to observe, to carefully deliberate, before he made a decision. Some situations, however, didn’t allow for careful deliberation. This situation was one of them.

“Alright,” Horatio said, rather impulsively for him, but something told him that he might want to follow his heart for once and not his head. “First person to get three touches is the victor.”

Hamlet counted off, and began with a lunch, with Horatio deftly parried before sweeping in with a flick, touching the side of Hamlet’s torso.

“Hit number one for me,” Horatio cried with glee. He never got competitive about anything, but right now, adrenaline was flowing through him. He suspected the competition wasn’t the only cause of his emotions.

“A touch, I admit it.” They resumed their initial positions, and Hamlet again moved, this time with a bold thrust, parried by Horatio, but when he countered with a disengage, Hamlet broke out a wonderfully executed circle parry, then caught Horatio off guard with a feint that looked like a disengage, and a direct attack.

“Hah! One for me!” Hamlet exclaimed. Horatio said nothing, thinking as they once again took to their positions. He considered letting Hamlet win, leaving the next steps--if there were going to be any next steps of their relationship--in his hands. After all, he’d do anything Hamlet wanted. He was irrevocably devoted to his man, his best friend, the prince of the realm, but who for the most part didn’t seem much like a prince. He was just Hamlet to Horatio. Just a college boy Horatio had happened to fall head over heels in love with.

If he was going to let him win, he wasn’t going to let him win easily. They both fought defty, tying up the score at 2 hits each. After a point in line defense, Hamlet could have easily attacked for a hit, but instead, he tossed his foil to the ground, whipped off his mask, dropped it by his side, grabbed Horatio’s shoulders, and pushed him against one of the room’s walls. Surprised, Horatio involuntarily dropped his foil and pushed off his mask as well, to be greeted by the prince’s mouth covering up his own.

Horatio could scarcely breathe, not just because the prince was prying Horatio’s lips open with his tongue, prompting Horatio to push back against him and kiss him harder, showing him in no uncertain terms how much he wanted this. He could scarcely breathe because he wanted this so much, because the fantasies he’d dared imagine were finally becoming reality.

Hamlet moved from Horatio’s lips to the small part of his neck that was exposed by the top of the fencing jacket and, being unsatisfied with that, ripped the jacket open to push his lips down into the curve where Horatio’s neck met his shoulder. Horatio’s breath hitched, and the prince’s mouth moved back up, hovering around Horatio’s ear.

“Go on a date with me, Horatio,” Hamlet whispered. Horatio smiled, with both joy and amusement.

“But you didn’t win,” he responded, turning his head so he could look into Hamlet’s blue eyes.

“Neither did you,” Hamlet said, smiling, running a hand down Horatio’s chest. He sorely wished his sweatshirt and t-shirt were not there.

“But I believe that you forfeited. In which case, I am the victor.” Horatio grew bolder, hand snaking up Hamlet’s arm, up to the zipper of the fencing jacket.

“Very well. What would you have me do?”

Horatio moved his head toward the prince’s so that their lips touched again. He was more aggressive this time, hand moving into Hamlet’s blond hair to keep their faces pressed together. He moved back to say, “Go on a date with me, Hamlet.”

The prince smiled. “Anything for you, my Horatio. Anything.”  
\---------------------------------------  
The date wasn’t really necessary, so to speak--they went to dinner at a small pub, then back to Hamlet’s room to talk about what would happen next, in terms of their relationship. Horatio asked for commitment, which Hamlet readily agreed to. Hamlet asked for secrecy.

“I’m sorry that has to be my condition. You deserve so much better, Horatio. But I want to be with you, more than anything, and until I figure out a way to make being with you and being in the public eye work together, then we have to be careful.”

Horatio nodded in agreement. He planned to enjoy his prince while he could, before some nobleman’s son snatched him away. The fear of losing him to someone more socioeconomically fitting didn’t abate until one cold January day, after final exams had ended, while they were entangled in Hamlet’s sheets, slowly removing each other’s clothing and interspersing lazy kisses with passionate ones.

“I never asked you,” Horatio said, “whether you’ve ever done this before.”

“Done what?” Hamlet asked, pulling at Horatio’s t-shirt and surveying how he looked in only his briefs.

“You know, rolled around in bed naked with another man. For someone who is very intelligent, you act remarkably dumb sometimes,” Horatio teasingly chided, running a finger down the middle of Hamlet’s slim, naked torso and toying with the elastic of his underwear.

“Would it surprise you if I said yes?” Horatio raised his eyebrows in response.

“A bit, if only because I’d imagine it would be a bit hard to have sex with a man as a closeted prince?”

Hamlet laughed, circling a thumb over Horatio’s left nipple, making the other man’s breath suddenly quicken. “Always so logical, Horatio. You’d be right about that, which means you probably won’t be surprised that it was with someone you know.”

Horatio’s mouth fell open, indicating that he was, in fact, surprised by this. “Who?” he exclaimed. Despite the fact that he was lying--well, now actually nude, since Hamlet had taken advantage of his moment of shock to yank his boxers down over his legs and toss them on the floor, atop the rest of their clothing--he still felt a tiny pang of jealousy at the man who got to his prince first.

“Guess,” Hamlet said playfully, his hand placed on the hot skin of Horatio’s inner thigh. Horatio thought for a moment, and thought about the fact that, if Hamlet’s hand kept moving in the direction it was heading, very soon he wouldn’t be able to think at all.

“Guildenstern?” he tried. Hamlet shook his head in response. That only left one of Hamlet’s friends who Horatio knew.

“Rosencrantz?!” he said, a bit more incredulously. It wasn’t that he was surprised at Rosencrantz, specifically. It was just general surprise that even the wealthiest kids in the nation, who had the eyes of the common folk upon them, still had relationships with each other, and not always the kind you’d expect.

“It wasn’t love or anything. I suppose you could call it ‘experimentation,’ though I’m firmly convinced Rosencrantz is head over heels in love with Guildenstern but we’ll all be old and gray before he says anything. So, in a nutshell, they both know. But no one else does, and of course that’s confidential information.” Horatio rolled over on top of his prince, swore himself to secrecy, and deftly removed the remainder of Hamlet’s clothing. After poor Marcellus walked in on them half naked and sprawled on Horatio’s bed, Hamlet bent over the open fly of Horatio’s jeans, they tended to keep the sexual part of their relationship confined to the privacy of Hamlet’s single.

“Being with you, however,” Hamlet murmured as Horatio lowered his tongue to a nipple, “is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Probably because I have never loved anyone as I love you.” 

These sweet declarations of love caught Horatio off guard while in the throes of heated passion. Hamlet said things like that and Horatio just wanted to snuggle into him, to kiss his lips and ruffle his hair and stay close to him forever, no matter what the world said, no matter if he had to hide forever. But lately, love and sex had begun to intertwine themselves much more in Horatio’s head, so that this time, upon hearing Hamlet’s words, Horatio left a trail of kisses from Hamlet’s lips down his chest and closed his lips over Hamlet’s cock, ready to make his sweet prince unravel in front of his very eyes, and then put himself back together again, coiled in the sheets and Horatio’s arms.  
\-----------------------------  
Hamlet’s coming out to the Danish nation, like everything else about him, was unconventional. Horatio predicted it would happen in the manner that it did, and later, he began to think that Hamlet knew it would happen that way too, and deliberately planned for it.

The prince began to get restless in the springtime. Normally content to spend time with Hamlet alone in their rooms, he wanted to be outdoors more, and they went for walks, or he treated Horatio to dinner or a movie, except for the times where Horatio insisted on paying so he didn’t feel like a kept person, as he put it. 

“We should go out tonight,” Hamlet said after they had finished eating pizza in his room.

“Out?” Horatio asked quizzically.

“You know. To a club. A gay club.”

For a moment, Horatio stared at him, open mouthed. “Are you high or something?”

“What? No, of course not!”

“Hamlet, that is the craziest idea I have ever heard. We can’t go out to a gay club! Not unless you want pictures of us splashed all over the internet!”

“Oh come on,” Hamlet said, waving his hand as if to brush away Horatio’s sensible words, still floating in the air between them. “Who in this tiny town in Germany is going to recognize a Danish prince?”

“I’m sure those have been the ‘famous last words’ of many people in similar situations,” Horatio said, but Hamlet would not be convinced. He was desperate to take Horatio out, to be with him intimately in a public setting. What better place to do so than the darkness of a club?

Horatio, recognizing that further debate was an exercise in futility, agreed to this insane plan. Hamlet cut a dashing figure in his black jeans and black v-neck fitted long-sleeved t-shirt, his slim figure and bright blond hair sure to catch the eye of many in the club. Horatio was, though he didn’t want to admit it, looking forward to spending the evening on Hamlet’s arm, warding off any advances of others with a murderous gaze of his hazel eyes.

Despite his general hatred for large gatherings of people he didn’t know, he actually enjoyed going to the club with Hamlet, drinking with him, backing him into a corner and moving his hips against his royal boyfriend, lips colliding in impassioned kisses--these were things they had only done in the privacy of Hamlet’s bedroom.

But Horatio had been right all along. The next morning, they both awoke to the blaring noise of Hamlet’s ringtone. An angry and confused Queen Gertrude was on the phone, wondering why there were pictures on the Internet of her only son dancing provocatively with and kissing another boy at what appeared to be a gay club. It was the perfect opportunity for Hamlet to tell her and his father about Horatio and how much he loved him, and he explained everything on the phone, his left hand in Horatio’s hands, Horatio’s head on his shoulder. They seemed more angry at him for creating a PR disaster rather than for being gay, but they had also mentioned that they would “discuss this matter” (meaning the matter of Horatio, and his place in Hamlet’s life) when he returned home for the summer.

That was last summer, and King Hamlet and Queen Gertrude had ultimately decided that their son’s happiness was more important than any symbolic continuation of their royal line. He had already released a statement identifying Horatio at the time of the photos, after which the paparazzi enjoyed capturing them together whenever they ventured out of Hamlet’s dorm room--which was more often, considering they no longer had to live in secrecy. Last summer, Hamlet had come to visit Horatio, whose parents were delighted that their son was the significant other of the prince. His mom had cleaned the entire house before Hamlet arrived and profusely apologized that they did not have enough bedrooms for Hamlet to have his own room, which relegated Horatio to an air mattress in his bedroom for the two weeks Hamlet stayed (not that he actually slept on the air mattress, but his mom didn’t need to know that). Hamlet had to politely remind her to treat him like any other boy who was dating her son, though he couldn’t help making comments that set him apart, such as “Wow, is this really how everyone lives? It’s just like in the movies!”  
\-------------------------------------  
And now, one year later, Horatio was visiting Hamlet at his home, which happened to be a castle by the sea, and visiting his parents, who happened to be the heads of state of his country. Needless to say, he was shaking as he got out of the car that Yorick parked at the castle gates. As soon as he stepped inside the heavy wooden front door, a figure barrelled into him, embracing him and kissing him fervently.

“God I’ve missed you,” Hamlet said, wide grin on his face as his fingers tangled through Horatio’s light brown hair. “Come on! Let me show you around!” He grabbed Horatio’s hand and pulled him down the corridor as Horatio turned back, watching Yorick unload his luggage from the car. He was about to ask if he should be helping before he remembered where he was. 

The first place Hamlet brought him to was his room, which was larger than half of the entire upstairs of his house. Sumptuously decorated, the gold and blue curtains framed multiple windows that overlooked the sea. The gilded bed was larger than any bed he’d ever slept in--it could have easily fit four of him under its heavily embroidered comforter. The room also featured a desk and a set of chairs, an artful couch, and a small table, as well as a walk-in closet and his own bathroom.

“But you haven’t seen the best part yet,” Hamlet said eagerly as he walked over to a portion of the wall in the far right corner of the room. The panel had a faint outline that separated it from seamlessly blending in with the white wall, and when Hamlet pushed on it, Horatio realized that it was a door, leading to a narrow hallway. He followed Hamlet down the tiny hallway, both of them crouching in order to fit, and they emerged into another room decorated in a similar style as his, except in red and gold. 

“Don’t tell me--this is your room,” Horatio guessed, and Hamlet nodded eagerly. 

“I couldn’t resist picking that bedroom as your room for the month. The secret passageway was just too--romantic.” He pulled Horatio down onto his bed, and Horatio let out a happy laugh as the two of them bounced on the soft mattress, the curtains that hung on the four posters shivering with their contact.

“I assume,” Horatio said, as Hamlet quickly removed his boyfriend’s t-shirt and belt and began unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, “that I won’t be sleeping in my room much of the time I’m here?”

“Certainly not,” Hamlet said, giving Horatio the opportunity to similarly divest him of his clothing. “Although perhaps I’ll come sleep in your room sometime. Spend the night in a different part of the castle--I’ve lived here my entire life and I’ve always slept in the same room. Odd, isn’t it? With all these rooms?”

Horatio murmured his assent, placing small bites on Hamlet’s neck and shoulders, eliciting a moan from the prince.

“There is a certain amount of giddy happiness that comes from knowing that your boyfriend is about to fuck you in your childhood bedroom, in your childhood bed,” Hamlet said, eliciting a laugh from Horatio.

“Is that what I’m about to do, my sweet prince?” Horatio replied, using the pet name he’d dreamed about and which Hamlet enthusiastically enjoyed. “What if your parents hear? What am I supposed to say to them when I meet them--’Why yes, I’ve had an excellent stay so far. I spent my first few hours here fucking your son until he couldn’t remember his name. Quite enjoyable, for all parties involved.’”

“That last one will certainly be true,” Hamlet said, scrambling underneath Horatio, letting Horatio’s body fall between his legs and reaching up to entwine his arms around Horatio’s neck. “And please, we live in a castle. They’re probably on the opposite side of the building, on a different floor. There’s no way they’ll be able to hear anything.”

Horatio couldn’t help it--he kept shushing the very loud and very eager prince, just in case, although every time he told him to be quiet, he couldn’t help but giggle, and then Hamlet would giggle as well, in the midst of moaning and swearing and shouting Horatio’s name. Horatio laughed because he was happy, and because his prince was happy, but he also laughed at the randomness of life. Who would have thought he’d end up in the Crown Prince’s bed, both of them delighted that he was there? He suddenly realized that he was wrong, about thinking that he had control over his destiny and Hamlet didn’t. They both really had no control over this part of their destiny, or at least the part dictated by the heart, the part that threw them together knowing that they were just what the other needed--a cool head for the one, to keep him grounded and support him with the eyes of all upon him, and a buoyant spirit for the other, to remind him that reason can only take you so far in the realm of life. Sometimes, abandoning reason for the whims of the heart is not only recommended, but necessary.


End file.
